


Deference

by Fierceawakening



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Bloodplay, Dom/sub, Gore, Humiliation, M/M, Size Kink, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fierceawakening/pseuds/Fierceawakening
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Megatron wrecks Starscream's mouth for the first time. Just some good old-fashioned over the top violent Megatron/Starscream because I felt like it, goddamn it. There's brief mention of the fall of Vos and the Decepticons' vow of revenge for its destruction, but it isn't all that plotty.</p><p>It is gloriously gory, though. Don't be sipping the glorious Haterade if it's not your thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deference

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [weallscreamforstarscream](http://weallscreamforstarscream.tumblr.com) for beta reading this monstrosity.
> 
> There is an older [ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/943305) of mine that had the title "Deference" before I posted this fic. I decided this is a better place for such an evocative word.

"Starscream. Come here."

The Seeker approached, his head held defiantly high, his heels clicking against the metal floor.

Normally, his heels and feet would have been polished, shining bright as silver. Now soot smudged their surface, dulling them to a lusterless gray. Polishing himself, it seemed, had become a luxury.

"Lord Megatron," he said, the words bitter ash in his mouth. That  _chair_ at the far end of the room was as blackened and dirty as any other in this Primus-forsaken city.

It was no throne, and the mech sitting on it was no king.

Still, for the moment, he was Starscream's only hope.

He stopped a few steps from the makeshift throne and bowed with the elaborate grace of a mech built for the halls of a royal court. His wings still bore dents and scratches, and the long ugly line of a freshly-welded scar cut across one of them. He willed himself to ignore it, fanning out his wings as though he'd waxed them for the occasion.

Bright optics flared from the shadows. A slant of light fell on one of the big mech's claws, and Starscream could see it grip tightly enough at the armrest of the throne to leave dents in the thin metal.

Heat flared through Starscream's systems in spite of himself.

He'd learned just nights ago what strength like that could do. Not all of the scratches and tears in his plating had come from the battle for Vos. He twitched a still-sore aileron, relishing the slow burn spreading through his sensors as it moved.

To call this mech lord then, the word wrung from him by razor-sharp claws tearing at his frame and by a massive spike cleaving his insides nearly in two, had been easy.

And a night spent in Megatron's violent embrace was a night without recharge. A night without the flames of Vos's burning rising up to fill his dreams.

Megatron had promised that Iacon would burn too, its domes shattered, its metal twisted into the same tortured, half-melted shapes as the spires of his home.

He cycled air shallowly through his vents, the sound a ragged pant. His cooling fans whirred.

"Lord?" Megatron rasped, his rough voice rich with amusement. "You have not yet sworn your fealty to me."

Starscream felt his faceplates flush. He scowled, the bright heat curling through his spark blazing into anger again. "The Seekers will all take your mark at the ceremony tomorrow."

Starscream stared at Megatron's chest and the insignia in the center. Once, the space there had borne no device at all. Spiked armor plates flared outward from the empty space, adorning and protecting Megatron's chest.

The lack was a lie of omission. Everyone on Cybertron had known that Megatron led the Decepticons. But Megatron himself had denied it, biding his time as his army grew.

Until, at last, he had freely admitted before all of Cybertron that the Decepticon army served him and him alone -- and unleashed it on his enemies.

Now the once-empty space bore a fresh, livid brand, seared for life into the metal. The plating there was raw and vulnerable, blackened by the branding tool.

Some said Megatron had seared it there himself.

Starscream flicked his wings again, but Megatron granted him no reprieve. "The Seekers," he prompted.

"Including me," Starscream finished. "As I promised."

 _As you forced out of me,_ Starscream thought with a hiss. The memory of fire crackled through his mind, and suddenly his vision of the shattered domes of Iacon seemed foolish. What good would razing Iacon do when Vos's spires had already fallen?

_Too little, far too late._

Starscream heard a low rumble from the big mech's frame, a roar of powerful engines that made him wince. Was Megatron angry or laughing?

Cautiously, the Seeker leaned forward, looking at his new lord's face. The optics were bright, their ridges drawn sharply over them.

But the scarred lip plates were curled back in a grin. Light glittered on Megatron's fangs. "You misunderstand me, Starscream. I wasn't talking about the ceremony."

"Then what -- ?"

"Or about your little band of refugees."

Starscream's spark flared hot with rage. "Band -- band of refugees? The Seekers are warriors, not sniveling little --"

Megatron lifted a hand, waving it dismissively. Starscream stared at the mangled metal of the armrest Megatron's claws had been gripping, mesmerized.

Then his gaze moved to Megatron's claws, their sharpened points glinting in the light. He shivered, his scars throbbing, a familiar heat building in his valve.

Starscream hissed, flicking his wings.  _He just insulted you,_ he reminded himself sternly.

"The Seekers are warriors," Megatron was saying, his frame still rumbling in a low purr. "I would not want their allegiance otherwise."

"Then what,  _my lord,_ is it you want?"

"I told you before. A profession of your loyalty."

Starscream's optics widened. "I --"

"A private and personal one."

Starscream's valve clenched, sending thrills of electricity through his systems. He felt suddenly and painfully empty -- and glad for the cover hiding the evidence of his desire.

His optics flickered. That, Megatron must have seen. The static cleared from Starscream's vision just in time to see the plate covering the warlord's spike shift aside.

Megatron's spike sprang free with a sudden, insistent motion that belied the big mech's calm demeanor. It strained upward, fully pressurized, biolights winking from the spaces between sharply slanting segments. A bead of quicksilver fluid glistened at its tip.

"Come here, Starscream," Megatron said again.

Starscream cursed, his voice low.

He had always loved degradation. Or at least, he'd loved to play at it. The Winglord of Vos, sovereign of the city and greatest flier in its army, crawling for some lesser mech in an obscene display. He loved begging them to hurt him, watching their optics widen in horror at the thought of defiling the perfect frame of their prince.

Every dent and every scratch, every drop of energon shed, testified to his power -- not to theirs. Every jolt of pain singing through his systems belonged to him, a bright cleansing fire that shocked his sensors to full alertness.

And he loved taking their spike at the end of it, pleading for release -- all the while smirking in secret satisfaction, knowing that the moment after his vision blanked from the force of his overload his partner would be no one again. Would be  _his_ , at the beck and call of the mech who had ordered the whole thing to begin with.

But this -- this was different.

"Three nights ago --" he tried, his voice quavering.

Megatron had taken him then, rough and sudden, grabbing at him with all the force and fury of a gladiator fresh from Kaon's pits. He had had no time to refuse -- and no inclination, even if he had. Vos had fallen. He'd needed the searing burn of Megatron's touch, the stinging stretch of that massive spike inside him, more than he'd needed his dignity.

But now Megatron was asking for what he had simply seized before.

Now Starscream would have to lower himself to the ground before him, fully voluntarily, and --

Megatron laughed, a rich rolling sound that made Starscream want to get closer just so he could spit sparks into his face. "Three nights ago you knew what you wanted."

"Three nights ago my city was burning," Starscream hissed.

"And now it is a smoldering ruin," Megatron answered.  "Three nights changes very little between us."

The room filled with the roar of Megatron's cooling fans, a low rumble that Starscream could feel deep in his chassis. As he watched, Megatron's claw reached down to circle his spike. His optics narrowed, flickering in anticipation.

Starscream's spark pulsed hot with jealousy. That spike should have been his -- in his hands, his mouth, his empty, aching valve --

_No!_

Starscream flared out his wings. "How  _dare_ you speak of Vos!" he cried, glaring pointedly at the spike jutting up from Megatron's lap and the offending claw circling it.

Megatron's hand froze, half-wrapped around his spike. He lifted his head, staring at Starscream with a bright, molten-metal gaze.

Starscream frowned. Was this another ploy?

"You will have your revenge," the warlord said finally, his voice grave. "I have already promised it."

His mighty claw clutched at air, as though by will alone he could reach through time and distance to wring the neck of some unseen enemy.

Starscream's spark whirled hot in his chest, seeing it. He'd watched Megatron kill before, sneaking into Kaon to watch Megatron fight in the arena there. He'd seen those claws rip through cabling, the energon of his enemy gushing forth in a glowing flood.

And three nights ago he'd learned for himself just what those claws could do. His wounds throbbed again, an effervescent heat crackling through his systems.

"That will never be enough," he spat, snarling as much at himself as at Megatron. His wings clicked loudly as they moved, underscoring the indignation he wanted to feel.

Megatron ignored him. His voice was measured and even, save for a slight staticky catch that betrayed his lust.

"And when the last of our enemies has fallen -- when the last of the corruption corroding our world from the inside has been purged -- we will rebuild it."

Starscream's lip plates quirked into the beginning of a smile.

Megatron slid his hand away from his spike. His smirk matched Starscream's own. The dull roar of his cooling fans rumbled beneath his words. "I do not promise such things lightly."

Starscream stared at Megatron's scarred face, searching the jagged lines there for sincerity. Then his gaze moved lower, taking in the blackened metal around the warlord's brand.

His claws itched with a sudden hunger. Three nights ago, Megatron had thrown him to the ground and torn into him with spike and claws alike. His only movement had been to writhe under the warlord's bulk.

Now he wondered: did Megatron's brand still sting? How would it feel, his claws curling over it, their tips digging into the black, glowing energon pricked from the healing wound?

Megatron wanted him. Why not take what  _he_ wanted as well?

Letting his gaze shift lower, he brightened his optics and licked his lips.

Megatron smiled, his fangs twin rows of gleaming blades. He upturned his claw, beckoning.

Starscream closed the distance between them in two graceful strides. He could feel Megatron's optics on him as he slid to his knees in front of the warlord's --

Throne. It would serve, for now.

The flames rose up in his head again, painting the space behind Megatron in orange and gold. He heard their crackle in his audios, just under the low rumble of Megatron's cooling fans and the murmur of his voice.

But now the fires that had seared his mind were changing, the blaze that consumed Vos spreading to scorch Iacon to the ground, to curl over all of Cybertron itself, blackening the impure where it passed.

And here, now, even the seat Megatron sat on was transfigured in his vision, the rising flames twisting into a bright filigree.

When Iacon burned and Vos and Kaon were rebuilt, the Decepticons would twist a new throne from the wreckage. One befitting a warlord -- and one befitting the prince at his side.

Starscream could almost feel the heat of it under his shins as he leaned forward. Megatron wanted a demonstration of devotion? Very well.

His hand curled around the base of Megatron's spike, echoing the grip that Megatron had teased him with. The big mech's optics shuttered, flickering, at his touch.

A fierce, possessive joy curled through him. Megatron had taken what he wanted before -- had seized it by force that still burned in the wounds on his wings. But now Megatron's pleasure came from him.

His shame gone, he opened his mouth, extending his glossa to lick.

He had to be careful. The segments of Megatron's spike were slanted. They were not, of course, sharpened to points like the warlord's armor, and he could trace over the whole spike's surface easily enough if he wished.

But biolights gleamed enticingly between the plates, and Starscream ached to slide his glossa over the seams where they lay, feeling their heat even as he stirred the sensors there to life. But he might easily cut himself on the plates' edges if he moved too fast.

So he forced himself to slow deliberation, his glossa curling between them with practiced finesse.

Above him, Megatron growled, reaching down to clutch at one of Starscream's sore wings. His hand clenched slowly around it, and the ache spread through Starscream's systems, every sensor in the sore metal flaring to new life.

Starscream trembled, faltering in his movements, and his glossa caught on one of the plates. He felt the sting as the edge pricked it, and tasted his own energon. The pain felt good, a bright burn.

He licked at the wound a moment and then traced his way up Megatron's spike, lapping at the quicksilver fluid leaking from the spike's tip. The tang of his own energon mixed with it, a faint hint of the fuel Vos was -- had been -- famous for, and his spark pulsed with a mix of loss and hunger.

He paused for a brief moment, his cooling fans roaring, and licked his way back down and up again.

Megatron's other claw reached down to wrap around his head. It gripped him tightly, the grasp of a mighty warrior who did not know his strength. Megatron's claws were big enough to reach around the back of his head entirely, and the sharpened claws curled around his cheeks and rested just beyond his optics.

He shuddered again, fear whirling through his spark, and he felt his own lubricant leak from his still-covered valve, seeping out from the seams and oozing onto his thighs. He rubbed them together, relishing the sensation it brought.

He felt Megatron's optics on him and looked up as delicately as he could. They were open now, open and blazing, and Megatron's fanged mouth was twisted into a grimace that might have been a grin of pleasure and might have been a glare of irritation.

"Enough of this," he said.

Starscream flicked his wings to show he understood. Megatron's claws bit into the wing he held, pricking the plating, and once again Starscream felt bright pinpricks of sensation where he bled. He whimpered, half in fear and half in need. Sliding his claw off the base of Megatron's spike, he opened his mouth.

Starscream was a small mech, his lithe frame dwarfed by Megatron's massive frame. The thing might have been completely impossible. But Starscream's mouth was disproportionately large, the plates of his jaw shifting to form wide smirks, twisted grimaces, gaping circles of surprise.

Even then, it took a partial transformation to open his throat wide enough to admit the massive bludgeon. The gears in his mouth and neck moved, stretching wide, and a rush of indignation curled through his spark. He was a prince, noblest and most perfect member of a race known for its beauty. How did he look now, his shape half shifted, on his knees in front of a barbarian?

But on the heels of that thought came hunger, the all-consuming greed he'd felt throwing himself in front of his lessers in Vos. Willing himself not to think, he slammed his distended mouth over Megatron's spike, welcoming the burn as it forced him open wider.

Something dented in his throat and he whimpered, a choked cry of pain that became a moan as an answering hum came from Megatron's frame. His claws dug into the plating of Megatron's thighs, eager to cause the same burn that seared his throat.

The claw around his head clutched tighter. He irised shut his optics, instinctively trying to protect them.

Megatron did not force him to move. He could feel the tension in the hand wrapped around him as it fought the temptation. Starscream would have smirked, had he been able to move, or laughed in triumph, had any sound come from him but a choked gurgle.

He moved as slowly as he could, his mouth and throat burning with the stretch, the dented plate at the roof of his mouth aching. The fit was so tight that he could feel every seam between the segments of the spike, their edges tearing at his lip plates. He felt his own energon spill over his chin, warm as the heat of Megatron's biolights, and his valve spasmed in envy, wanting the same burning stretch forcing it open.

He fluttered his wings, pressing the surface of the one Megatron held against the warlord's claws, no longer caring if the sensation he felt as they pierced him was pain or pleasure. His own claw slid off Megatron's thigh, digging deep as it moved, drawing bright lines of energon in its turn.

His valve cover thudded open with a clang. He was too far gone to wince at the jarring sound, his claws scrabbling at the moist rim of his valve even as he slid his mouth back up Megatron's spike again.

At first he was conscious only of a sudden throb in his dented wing as the claw clamped down on it loosened, flooding numbed sensors with sensation. Then he heard Megatron's voice, an indistinct roar that resolved into words. With it came a shock of agony in his wrist as Megatron wrenched it away.

"You will -- have your pleasure --" Megatron rasped, his words laced with static. "And your -- vengeance. But not today."

The desire flaring through Starscream's spark became the white-hot burn of rage. And yet on the heels of indignation came a new spasm of hunger, his valve clenching so hard he almost expected an overload.

He coughed around the spike filling his mouth, half in defiance and half to show that he understood. The plates of his throat locked around their invader and Megatron growled, the hand wound around Starscream's head forcing him down.

Pain burst through Starscream's sensornet, blanking his vision white. He froze, his systems stalling, a lifeless drone impaled on Megatron's spike. Through the searing burn he felt the great hand moving his head, a marionette moving only to Megatron's will.

 _A profession of loyalty,_ he thought madly, and would have laughed had he been able. This wasn't devotion, this was use, as simply and surely as Megatron claiming his valve three nights ago had been.

And yet every ravaged sensor Megatron's ridged spike flayed to horrible exposure burned in his spark and valve alike. He was beyond pain, beyond horror, beyond anything but the building heat in the spike stuffed in his mouth. He could feel Megatron's pleasure coming, as surely if it were his own.

His frame relaxed, the dented plates of his throat spasming once and opening yet wider, a final, incontrovertible sign of his surrender.

Then Megatron's transfluid burst forth from his spike at last, soothing the burn of Starscream's aching components in a flood of warm heat.

Megatron pulled his head free quickly. It might have been brutality, the uncaring harshness of a mech built and raised in the mines and the gladiator pits. But Starscream found himself thinking of mercy instead, of the sudden sharp moment of tearing a bandage free in one go.

He coughed and sputtered, spitting out a mouthful of his own energon on the floor in front of the throne. Warily, he looked up at Megatron, fearful lest the warlord see it as a sign of disrespect.

But Megatron was smiling, his optics dim with satiation and contentment.

For the moment, at least.

Starscream's mouth worked, his lip plates opening and closing, the components of his throat struggling to shift back into shape. His spark whirled lazy and slow, a mild warmth suffusing it as though he'd overloaded too.

He tried to smirk, and found he couldn't.

But that hardly mattered in the end. He had endured, and proven himself, and whatever fierce joy Megatron had wrenched from his battered frame had come from him, and him alone.

It was enough.

"My lord," he said at last, prostrating himself as he forced the words from his shattered vocalizer.

He was glad for the damage. There would be no trace of his usual sarcasm in a voice so ruined he himself could barely hear it.

From the throne above him came the thunderous sound of Megatron's laughter.


End file.
